The Good. The Bad. The Forgivable (Part I)

“What do you do when someone who loved you stops loving you because of who they have become?”

This is a question Aion asked himself as he paced the cherry wood flooring of his San Francisco loft.

We were good, no great together. We had the same friends, the same taste in music, the same love for food. We even rode the No. 2 bus from work to our after-work activities on Tuesdays. As a matter of fact, that’s how we met. What if we had too many similarities, not enough differences? What if I have been the one blinded by how she was all along wanting her to be how I wanted her to be? Naw, that just cannot be it.

As the tension grew in his mind, he could hear his calm voice battling with his dangerous voice and the fight was one-sided, in favor of danger.

I remember that day we met. I hopped onto the bus, my backpack full of paperwork from my last gig, headphones on blast. I saw her at the back of the bus, staring off into nothingness. She captured me at that moment. I usually sit up front, but for some reason, I looked towards the back on that Tuesday and saw the get-your-life-right expression on her face and I said to myself, I am the ONE. I paced the twenty-two steps it took to get to her, removed my backpack, took off my headphones, sat down, and said, “You needn’t worry about the sun. It always does its job. Hi. My Name is Aion.”

As I extended my hand, she sort of half-smiled, but she didn’t shoo me away. It was as if she really wanted someone to talk to her.

“Hi Aion?”

“Yes, Aion. I don’t think I’ve noticed you on this bus before.”

“I don’t think it was meant for you to notice me then.”

“Well, not until today. So, tell me. Who has stolen your thoughts?”

“Come again?”

“Your thoughts. You were drifting off into space when I saw you, sun in your eyes, worried look on your face. Who has stolen your thoughts?”

“You’re pretty nosy.”

“I am. I am also pretty persistent.”

The background noise surrounded us, enveloped us in a way that could not be unsealed. I had her attention and this, I intended to keep. She told me about the interview she had just left for a guest blogger position she had at that time, applied to four times. The way she spoke about it made me want to listen to her voice for more than thirty minutes. I knew my stop was coming up soon and I didn’t want to rest later that night without hearing the rest of her day’s events.

“My stop is coming up. I don’t want to end this conversation. Your number. I feel I should have it, you know. I am interested…”

“I really don’t think I could just give my number out to someone I barely know.”

“But, you just told me the adventure of your day without knowing me.”

I knew I had her there. The smirk that appeared on her face said that she was caught. Hook. Line. Sinker.

“You got me there. Okay. 910–473–0000.”

“910?”

“Yes, I’m from North Carolina. I recently made this place my home a little over eight months ago.”

“Ah, a Southern Girl, huh? And, does a name come with this number?”

“Tamara, but I’m called Mara.”

“Well Mara, it has been a pleasure. I will call you tonight.”

“Okay.”

The feeling that welled up inside me at that moment cannot be described. I hadn’t been in a relationship in about two years and my heart had been yearning for something/someone new. I needed to move on. Mara made me think that I could.